


Tales of headcanon and shipping mush

by mother_hearted



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Fluff, Headcanon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:45:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_hearted/pseuds/mother_hearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once he doesn't mind being himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of headcanon and shipping mush

He was twenty-one when he went on his last date. He'd been seeing a media major who was... well meaning, if not extraordinarily pushy. The fact they'd managed to last a semester and a half was surprising, to say the least. He'll never forget it, coming out of the art studio after spending all morning working on his mid-term, charcoal under his nails and covered in the set of clothes he last wore when he was painting - being caught and suddenly dragged away to a crowded coffee shop. All too aware of how messy and unkempt he was and _you need a break henry it's fine no one will care_ except _he_ had cared, scruffy with his hair too wild to be blamed on the wind outside and he remembers sitting there, cup of decaf gripped tightly in his hands and people staring. His shoulders hunched and set in a firm uncomfortable line he didn't know how to relax, no matter the goading, then the indifference, then the questions.

He didn't speak the entire hour, barely able to shrug or shake his head. He knew he was awkward and disappointing and he felt so uncomfortable and out of place his throat had tightened to the point he thought he would cry. In the end there weren't any tears, his eyes were as dry as his mouth and he'd gone home back to his dorm just as silently. In the following weeks there hadn't been any more attempts to take him anywhere.

The fact he can still remember that time in crystal clarity says something and instead of cringing about it, Henry tries to put those memories and feelings to productive use. It's been so long since he's been involved with anyone, wanted to spend time with them, and feel just as flattered they want to spend time with him. He isn't used to it, he's all too conscious of everything he says and does and he's too far inside his own head and yet despite being this ridiculously awkward, shy excuse for a person, he was asked out anyway and maybe it doesn't matter after all, that he's quiet and has a bad habit of wanting to hide whenever he feels the least bit embarrassed.

With that in mind, he decides to do what's best for him that will make him comfortable and happy and appearing receptive.

He gets up early that morning, does his work right and in record time. Returning back home, he showers, washing away the smell of chemicals from developing film and he shaves, brushes his hair, trims his sideburns more evenly. Clean and neat, he picks out a light green shirt to go over his white tee that brings out his eyes, rolls up the sleeves to show off the light dusting of hair on his forearms, shirt tucked into his jeans. The brown of his belt matches his shoes and he feels well put together, good in his time to prepare and he's at the restaurant twenty minutes later, walking up with his coat folded over one arm, eyes sweeping around for a familiar fatigue jacket.

A low whistle and a teasing grin _wow_ greet him to his right and he feels himself flush, eyes darting down to take in the ground. He feels warm and jittery and less nervous than he thought he would and a shy _hey_ manages its way past his lips.

For once he doesn't mind being himself.


End file.
